Mr Ma and Son by Lao She

like a newborn duckling. And as she walked, her cheeks trembled like the jellyfish eaten in winter.
    The Mas followed her, and after going a few hundred yards, she indicated a small stone pillar.
    ‘There it is,’ she said.
    The Mas hastened over to it. The name on the stone pillar wasn’t that of a Chinese person.
    ‘No,’ she said, as they were about to mention their doubts, ‘that’s not it. We’ll have to go a bit further. Of course . . . I remember him . . . Over there. The first Chinaman, he was.’
    They proceeded another few hundred yards, then Ma Wei, with his sharp eyes, noticed a small square pillar to their left that bore an inscription in Chinese characters. He tugged at Mr Ma, and the two of them walked towards it.
    ‘Yes, that’s right, there it is. I remember. Of course!’ said the old woman from behind them, her plump finger pointing to the stone pillar that they’d already discovered themselves.
    The pillar was a mere three feet high. On it was inscribed the name of Ma Wei’s uncle: Ma Wei-jen. Beneath his name were inscribed the year and month of his death. The stone itself was light grey, streaked with greyish-purple lines. The wreaths in front of it had by now lost their colour, washed by the rain, and the notes attached to them had long since been blown away by the wind. On the grass at the foot of the stone grew a few light-yellow flowers in pale bloom, their petals hung with drops of dew like teardrops. The black clouds in the sky, the stone pillar and the tattered wreaths combined to produce an atmosphere of forlorn desolation. A feeling of distress welled up inside Mr Ma, and he found himself shedding tears. And although Ma Wei had never met his uncle, his eyes grew red-rimmed too.
    Ignoring Ma Wei and the old lady, Mr Ma knelt down before the slab, and with great reverence performed three kowtows . ‘Elder brother,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘protect your younger brother so that he may make his fortune and carry your coffin back to China.’
    As he uttered these words, his voice broke, and he couldn’t say anything more.
    At his father’s side, Ma Wei bowed three times towards the stone slab. The old woman behind him was crying so brokenly that her face was awash with tears. Rendered powerless to even lift up her apron, she was reduced to rubbing her face with her fists.
    In the midst of her nonstop weeping, she asked, ‘Do you want any fresh-cut flowers? I’ve got some.’
    ‘How much?’ asked Ma Wei.
    ‘Bring some,’ said Mr Ma as he knelt before the grave.
    ‘All right, I’ll go and get some. I’ll go and get some.’
    The old woman picked up her skirts, seemingly to run, but, as her ankles were rather bent, she merely stumped along, face to the sky, tottering unsteadily. She was away for an age, and when at last she slowly waddled back, her face and neck were as red as the bricks of her little red house. With one hand she clutched her skirts, and in the other held a bunch of apricot-yellow tulips.
    ‘Here’s the flowers, sir. Nice and fresh. Oh, yes . . .’ she rambled on as she handed the flowers to Mr Ma.
    He picked up one of the wreaths and stuck all the flowers in it. Then he placed it back at the foot of the slab. He stepped back two paces, contemplated it, and wept once more. As he wept, the old woman accompanied him with her sobs.
    ‘The money,’ she said suddenly, at the hysteric height of her lamentations, stretching out her hand. ‘The money.’
    Without a word, Mr Ma fished out a ten-shilling note and handed it to her. At the sight of the note, she lifted her head and peered closely at Mr Ma.
    ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you. Yes, the first Chinaman buried here. Oh, yes. Oh, thank you. I do hope a few more Chinamen die and get buried here.’
    This last sentence was addressed to herself, but was quite distinctly overheard by the Mas.
    All at once, the sun shot a ray of light through a broken cloud and cast their shadows on the stone pillar,